


Love's A Universe

by scarredsodeep



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Blond Pete, Canon Compliant, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Save Rock and Roll Era, Stubble, Tales from 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-03 23:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10260842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarredsodeep/pseuds/scarredsodeep
Summary: Patrick is distracted by Pete's new stubble.ForLadySmutterella'sbingo challenge!





	

God, Pete’s stubble is distracting.

Patrick is accustomed to a clean-shaven Pete. A black-haired Pete, dressed in something preposterous. This blond, be-flanneled, rough-stubbled creature—

Patrick can’t stop imagining stubble burn on his thighs.

He sits on the interviewer’s couch, _legs crossed thanks much_ , and can’t even focus on what Pete’s saying because of how he keeps moving the microphone close to his mouth and then pulling it away again, making Patrick think of—things pretty fucking orthogonal to this interview.

For all that Pete Wentz has never actually given him head, Patrick has an _awfully_ vivid image of it in his mind right now. He has to blame it on something. He chooses the stubble.

There’s a pause in the interview and everyone turns to Patrick, expectant. He has no idea what they’ve been talking about, what they want him to say. He grips onto his microphone like he can squeeze the expected answer out of it. He thinks of anything but dicks. Tongue thick in his mouth, he says something inane about _excited about the reunion, just blown away by fan response_ and zones right back out. Staring at Pete’s mouth.

How is it even possible that he’s known Pete Wentz for twelve years and never done anything significant with the man’s _mouth_. Talk about untapped fucking potential.

But then, he’s never seen Pete with stubble before.

He’s not sure whether anyone _notices_ his erection, but he at least makes it through the interview without anyone _commenting_ on it, and Patrick takes that as a win. After, Andy and Joe hang around the snack table, chatting with the show’s producer, with each other; Patrick isn’t going to waste any more opportunities, throw away any more chances. He follows Pete into the little dressing room without a second’s hesitation.

He follows Pete closely, acknowledging no convention of personal space. When Pete stops walking, Patrick actually collides with his shoulder blades.

“Hey can we talk,” Patrick says. He holds his hands in shield formation in front of his crotch, in a manner he deeply hopes appears casual.

“Of course,” says Pete, flopping down on the couch, looking up at Patrick with a moue of concern.

It takes all of Patrick’s willpower not to throw himself down on top of him. _Stubble. Outgrown facial hair. Why is this sexy?_ Patrick tries to convince himself he isn’t terribly, urgently aroused. He’s kept this—thing—with Pete at arm’s length, fended off recognizing his own feelings for all these years. And suddenly he’s undone by black stubble and a blond head, by dark brows and dark roots? God, god. This is so stupid. This is unbearably reckless.

Patrick can’t stop himself.

“We both have good things going now,” Patrick starts. He’s babbling. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. This was a terrible place to start, reminding Pete how happy and stable they’ve both become, in that vast lonesome space without each other. They each went through hell to grow into the men they’ve become. This health, this balance, was hard-fucking-won. Patrick knows it. Patrick does not wish, at this moment, to know it. Patrick wants to upset the balance. Patrick wants to grab up everything they’ve achieved in greedy handfuls and fling it into the stars, see what sticks there. Because fuck it. Absolutely fuck it. He _wants_ this. How long has he said nothing, wanting it? Obsessing over it. Trying, for over a decade, to talk himself out of it.

“We do,” Pete agrees cautiously. He’s giving Patrick a look like _whatever the fuck you’re doing, probably don’t_ , but he should have thought of that before he decided not to shave the last five mornings. It’s too late now.

“The band’s in a good place. We’re both pretty happy. We’ve got good people, good partners.” Why does Patrick just keep listing the reasons he shouldn’t throw his yearning body at Pete right now? Really, who is this serving?

“We do,” Pete says again.

“But god, Pete.” Patrick doesn’t really know what to do with these words either. He feels his legs buckle, his body taking over: he drops to his knees beside the couch. His boner is relentless. Carefully, carefully, he takes one of Pete’s hands in his own.

Pete watches their linked hands with curiosity. There is no other indication, no hint of what to do. Of what’s okay to do. Pete’s been issuing full-body, full-person consent to Patrick for years. Patrick doesn’t know what’s valid, anymore. Patrick doesn’t know what’s… allowed.

He has never doubted, before, that he is allowed anything. Everything.

“I want to hold your hand,” Patrick confesses, rather obviously. His voice is low in his throat, husky with a decade’s unspoken need. “Not like a Beatles song, but like a Nine Inch Nails song. I want to crawl inside you, feel your heartbeat from the inside. You look… so good.” Patrick is shaking. He can feel himself shaking. Pete stares at him, those blazing eyes, one quirked brow. They can both feel him shaking.

“You want to crawl inside me… sexually?” Pete clarifies. Patrick squeezes Pete’s hand like he squeezed the microphone earlier. He is basically concussed with lust. His lizard brain has taken over. He doesn’t really have _words_ , not at this proximity to Pete’s goddamn _stubble_. He certainly doesn’t have fucking _thoughts_.

“Obviously yes,” Patrick says. His voice is shaking too. “Look at yourself. Jesus Christ, Pete. _I need you_.”

Pete stares at him seriously for what feels like several full minutes, at least three-quarters of a year. His sweet amber eyes don’t waver; his bleached hair stands at attention. Some kind of decision appears to happen, because finally, Pete says, “Okay,” grabs the neck of his t-shirt, and pulls it over his head.

So there’s Pete, shirtless. Now it’s not just stubble Patrick has to contend with, but the fucking happy trail too. God, he likes Pete blond. He likes the— _contrast_. Pete’s all contrast, always has been, but it’s usually not so… visible.

They decide to kiss each other at the same time, collide. There is a knocking of teeth, a yelp of pain and a laugh as someone’s lip is mashed and faces are re-maneuvered. Then there is just the kiss.

Patrick’s insides curl up, scraping up from the bottom of his body, his aching cock, into his stomach and lungs and heart, til he’s shining out his chest, radiating bliss out into the universe. Into Pete. Their tongues meet, mouths yielding, and somehow they kiss like they’ve always known the way, like they are old lovers who already know every trick, every favorite pleasure. Yet nothing about the kiss feels old: every sensation is a new one, scintillating as it chases over the skin. They kiss like they’ve invented it, like they’ve mastered it over a century. Like they were made to.

When Pete works his hand into Patrick’s jeans, Patrick seriously considers the possibility that he had an aneurysm in his sleep and this is all a light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel dream. Denim constricts: with the way Patrick’s kneeling, his penis is trapped, hard like it’s got its own fucking skeleton, red and hot with churning blood. None of this is ideal. His hips move hopelessly, Pete’s cramped fingertips catching calloused on velvet heat. Neither of them can get a fucking grip.

Patrick’s hands have better luck: the one locked in Pete’s short blond hair, squeezing the back of his neck, pulling their kiss deeper til the boundaries between their bodies are blurred into obsolescence, and the one undoing Pete’s buttons and zippers. Patrick laughs into Pete’s lips with what breath he can spare, finding Pete’s cock springing ready into his hand: Pete never was much for underwear. Patrick used to think it was deliberately to torment him. Pete always blamed the girl jeans.

Having Pete in his hands, belly up and open before him, throat exposed and mouth so dark, so soft, so full of fucking wonder—the only way Patrick knows he’s awake is because this is too good for dreaming. Oh, this is real. This is the first real thing in his whole life.

It’s not enough. Pete rocks his hips against Patrick’s stroking hand, the skin stretching and sliding, friction and the temperature of blood and all the years of waiting coalescing into a growl Patrick kisses out of his throat. God, god, it’s so much he’ll burst his skin and it’s _not enough_. Pre-cum slips over the tip of Pete’s dick, slicking and sticking Patrick’s greedy grasping fingers. The world is heat and salt and sweat.

Patrick needs the world to be much _closer_.

“Come _here,_ ” Pete says, his voice guttural beyond recognition. His hand gives up on Patrick’s entirely too tight pants, seizing instead a handful of Patrick’s button-down, tugging him bodily onto the couch. Emitting a moan of his own, Patrick gladly tumbles onto Pete, rushing headlong at that beautiful expanse of naked, tattooed skin.

For a moment he just lays like that, on top of Pete, his denim shirt pressing against Pete’s bare torso, his dick hard and full of heartbeat against Pete’s hip, Pete’s purple-flushed and brushing Patrick’s hem. Patrick looks down at one of his oldest friends, his favorite what-if, and resolves to finally _know_.

Patrick’s lips, skin tight and stung, work a line down Pete’s jaw; Patrick’s teeth seek Pete’s pulse in the soft, pale yoke of bone and throat. He shudders, the space between them dwindling into nothing, vastness eaten up by their black hole of longing; he is so _ready_ to be devoured.

“I will give you any fucking thing you ask for,” Patrick says into Pete’s skin, words buzzing against Pete’s gasping Adam’s apple, “if you suck me off right now.”

Pete makes an urgent sound that does not resemble any word Patrick’s ever heard, but he understands it perfectly. Pete surges up, half sitting, kisses Patrick like they’re sharing an oxygen tank, and wrests Patrick’s pants down over his hips. Pete takes Patrick’s junk roughly in one hand, not minding what he’s semi-crushing, and shoves Patrick away with the other. Patrick falls back onto the arm of the couch, smacking the air out of his lungs on impact—not that there was so much air in his lungs to begin with—and Patrick lets his head slump back in surrender. “ _Obliterate me_ ,” he begs the ceiling.

“With inevitability,” Pete breathes. “With pleasure.”

His mouth is close enough to Patrick’s groin that his exhalation moves Patrick’s pubes, sending goosebumps across Patrick’s blue-pale thighs. Then his mouth is closer.

Pete takes Patrick into his mouth, which is hotwetmotion _pressure_ suction. There is no languid moment, no exploratory flick of tongue; Pete takes Patrick’s dick like he’s starved for it, like he’s wasted years without it in his mouth and isn’t going to waste a second longer, like he’ll swallow Patrick’s whole body and this is just the start. Patrick can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed but he’s seeing fucking _stars_.

Open: he looks down, sees his body splayed out, knees crooked awkward to the side, still tangled up in his jeans. He sees his shirt rucked up, Pete’s big-knuckled hand clutching at his hipbone with bruising force. He sees Pete’s blond, dark-rooted head moving between his legs. Pete’s eyes are closed beatific, like he’s doing something holy, like he can take Patrick’s cock as communion and be absolved. And yes— _god, yes_ —scraping raw Patrick’s sensitive thighs, he feels Pete’s stubble.

_It’s spring, when the world is puddle-wonderful_ , Patrick thinks, because Pete’s mouth is wet as reinvention and humid as a poem and he gets points, really, for having thoughts at all at this point. Everything narrows, but not like getting smaller—like the roof’s been blown off, like the universe has been a convertible all along and now the top’s down, the stars all streaming in. Patrick’s existence is one hand, fisted in Pete’s hair; one skillful fucking mouth; two chafing thighs. Patrick’s existence is cosmic, it contains such vastness.

Patrick’s existence is _good_.

There’s no time to warn Pete, all the way from outer-fucking-space, before Patrick is annihilated by a clever bit of tooth-and-tongue. Patrick feels scalded from the inside out as he comes in Pete’s hungry mouth. Patrick feels unmade. Pete sucks and swallows Patrick’s shuddering orgasm, holds Patrick in his mouth with an explorer’s curiosity until the last of it is done. Patrick is prepared to collapse and die when Pete lifts his head and grins up from in between Patrick’s cherry-red, stubble-scraped thighs. There are stars in Pete’s eyes. No, galaxies. He shines brighter than gold.

“Your turn,” Pete says, showing every tooth. Patrick has seen that smile before, that reckless flare of happiness. Patrick sees that smile every time Pete looks at him. He is so fucking lucky, but not a single watt of Pete’s familiar grin has changed. They can contain this. They can contain as much as they can fucking wish for.

Looking at that smile. Looking at the stubble framing it. Oh, Patrick can think of a few wishes more.

“My turn,” Patrick agrees. He tackles Pete back onto the couch.

Patrick likes being distracted.


End file.
